


finally fading

by sear



Series: glimpse of a winged shape [3]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-05
Updated: 2005-03-05
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sear/pseuds/sear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain and the fading of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	finally fading

**Author's Note:**

> Well, yeah, angsting over dead characters… Boromir, sure I knew he would die, but it was another matter seeing him being shot full of arrows… Maximus, even if it was fitting… Hector, and Achilles! Lucian!  
> … Tristan, who could have lived… grr stupid filmmakers… and Lancelot!
> 
> And I guess this AN gives a clue as to how old this fic is, if anyone missed the posting date.

(C _hilling, white-hot, all-consuming, in the back of your mind._ )  
Pain. You know a lot about pain ( _how even the word seems to hurt_ ), comes with being a knight. Pain is a flesh-wound or a fresh blister ( _clench your teeth, don't scream,_ never _scream_ ). Pain is the dull throb of bruises and half-healed scars ( _the one where the Woad arrow passed through your shoulder_ ). Pain is being cold and hungry and too long on duty ( _as always_ ). Pain is the gnawing of service, of being unfree ( _manacles and leaden shoes_ ). But seeing Lancelot disappear with different women every night is agony ( _never scream_ ), and the pain of a death-blow, ( _how quickly your strength bleeds away_ ) is desperation.

Even if your heart still beats you know that the Saxon has killed you. ( _It is for the better.)_

Your hand fumbles with the throwing knife, but the futility of it all makes you hesitate. You are so tired. Fifteen years of stony resolve crumbles, why kill this last time? ( _You are already dead._ )

You release the knife, feeling the lady Death brush her hands over your forehead, encouragingly. The promise of the freedom you were denied in life lies in her whispers.

And so you die, for Arthur, ( _for Lancelot_ ) for the knights, on a Saxon blade, days after your service had ended.

The sky clears overhead but you do not see, you do not see that your lady has returned. You do not see something break in Lancelot's eyes when you go down. You do not see him fall. All you know is that the pain finally is fading.


End file.
